


Feathers

by venndaai



Category: Machineries of Empire Series - Yoon Ha Lee
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/pseuds/venndaai
Summary: HEY DUDES WHO WANTS A BIT OF WINGFIC





	Feathers

Kujen’s wings are average, as Nirai wings go; at least in Jedao’s experience, which up to now has been limited to technicians and Kel-seconded Nirai. Average size and shape; beautiful, though. Jedao can’t help admiring the intricate patterns. What concerns him, however, is the way their edges occasionally flicker, exposing, for a millisecond, the silhouette of something enormous and strangely fractal.

Kujen notices him looking, and smiles at him through lowered lashes. Jedao could swear the flickering increases briefly, almost like a wink. Jedao can feel a slight breeze from the fluttering of those large moth wings. It’s cool across his face. When Kujen bends to kiss Jedao’s forehead, he can feel the shape of the man’s smile against his skin. Jedao hates this intimacy, but he doesn’t move away.

Thinking about those ghostly wings makes him shiver, and once again he feels creeping fear down his spine at the idea of becoming a revenant. He could still veto the plan. He could still push Kujen away. But he doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Kel Cheris has raven wings, thick, muscular appendages covered in black feathers as glossy as a night sky. Khiruev wonders how well General Jedao is adjusting to them. She’d seen the images of the General in life, his goose-feather wings small and underdeveloped as a result of coming to Kel service so late. And she wonders what that must have been like, to go through the pain of growing additional limbs all by yourself without your fledgemates around you.

She can’t see any signs of discomfort now, though. Jedao lounges in his chair in command, feet up on the console in front of him, and one wing settles down casually while the other lifts slightly to emphasize each casual critique he delivers.

Later, when they’re alone in Khiruev’s quarters, he gazes at her wings as though hypnotized, and reaches out one stubby hand to brush along her feathers. Khiruev stands very still, in mute fledge helplessness, looking out of the corner of her eye at the trace of black glove against white wing. “Swan,” Jedao says, and his voice is so strange, and Khiruev is for a brief moment more afraid for Jedao than of him.

His hand drops. “Forgive me,” he says, still strange and distant, eyes frightened.

“Of course, sir,” Khiruev says.

* * *

 

Andan Tseya’s wings are the longest Brezan has ever seen, and the most beautiful, too, though that’s more expected. Somehow Tseya manages to keep the trailing feathers up off the ground, and she moves with such careful grace that she never knocks into anything. Brezan, on the other hand, keeps knocking objects off the shelves in her quarters whenever he turns around. He feels clumsy and crude as hell, an awkward fool of a hawk next to an elegant crane.

“Crane wings are traditional in my family,” she says, and once more casts him a sideways look, as though expecting him to pick up on something. He’s distracted by the contrast between the bright whiteness of her primary feathers and the dark bars along the bottom of her wings.

“Well,” she says after a moment, “make yourself useful, then,” and spreads her wings out imperiously, back to Brezan. He has to suck in a breath of amazement at the sheer size of her wingspan. Then, hesitantly, he gets to work, teasing out loose feathers and smoothing down the others. She sighs in satisfaction, and it sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

“You can keep them if you want,” she says, referring to the loose feathers.

“Thank you,” he says, sincerely meaning it.

He lays one of them out on his bedside table, next to one of his own flight-feathers. His is much shorter and wider, speckled brown instead of ethereal white. The feathers are like Tseya's jewelry, and her beautiful long hair, he decides; he loves to look and touch, but he wouldn't want them himself. He picks up the brown feather, turns it over in his hands. Crash-hawk he may be, but at least he still is a hawk, and everyone who ever sees him will know it. 

A buzz at the door: he opens it to reveal Tseya, lounging in a half-open robe, hair wet, smelling of flowers. "Come fly with me," she says. "There's room enough in the main garden."

Ridiculous. But it's been so long since he could stretch his wings, and his muscles ache. He follows her eagerly, already longing for the freedom of the air.


End file.
